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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138243">Apéritif</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/pseuds/allyoops'>allyoops</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Almost certainly anachronistic historical setting, F/M, Forced to receive oral, Interrupted Rape/Non-Con, Non-Consensual Touching, Polite rapist, Porn With Plot, Rape for Revenge, Raping somebody for the effects on another, Regency, Vaginal Fingering, Virginal teen victim of ambiguous age</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:15:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,227</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/pseuds/allyoops</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Her father finished his mission, but the mission is not quite finished with him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Regency Era spy/Teen daughter of the War Office agent pursuing him</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Nonconathon 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Apéritif</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonconamod/gifts">nonconamod</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the man appeared at her doorway, Cecily was positive it was unintentional. She had been expecting nobody. Papa had arranged a game of cards with some old friends from his time on the Continent, and he was the only man who ever darkened her door without summons. So when the lithe figure in well-tailored but otherwise forgettable daywear appeared to lean on the doorframe, she smiled to soften the discovery of his error.</p><p>But he did not bow away.</p><p>Instead, he smiled in answer to her own, and Cecily felt hers slip. She recovered it with an effort, but it was a paler shadow of its former self.</p><p>“I beg your pardon,” she said, “were you looking for Miss Mumford?”</p><p>His smile widened. Cecily’s suffered the inclination to flee altogether. This could not be to the good.</p><p>“Miss Mumford,” he said thoughtfully. “That the designing chit in the Paris models with the flaxen hair?”</p><p>The Mumfords were her hosts so Cecily thought it was probably improper to agree that such was Miss Mumford, no matter how technically accurate the description might be.</p><p>“Miss Mumford is a most amiable young lady, and she whom we have come to fête,” Cecily improvised, and she thought it sounded very well until she saw the sardonic twist to the side of the stranger’s mouth.</p><p>“Lucky Miss Mumford,” he said, and stepped into her room.</p><p>Cecily made an abortive attempt to rise, then fell back into her chair with a small cry, her book tumbling from her hand. The ankle she had turned yesterday on arrival, when the carriage had jostled at just exactly the wrong moment during her dismount, sent a stabbing pain of warning up her leg.</p><p>She sat, panting, trying not to clutch at her knee, and wondered how to meet the challenge of this smiling interloper. The heat of the day and the closeness of her chamber did not make for rapid cognitive processes, and hers were suffering dreadfully for her self-selected enclosure. At the time of her retreat, an overwarm guest room facing the south lawn had seemed small trial next to sharing company with Miss Mumford. Now she divined there might yet be worse companionship to be had, and she wondered if she could be equal to escaping it.</p><p>He looked so tall. And <em>broad</em>. Cecily frowned.</p><p>“If you are not in search of Miss Mumford, then who . . .”</p><p>“Why, Cecily Townsend,” he tsked, “and I had such high expectations of your intellect!” He closed the door and turned the key, sharpening in Cecily every heretofore heat-damped instinct that she should panic. “No, my dear, I am not here in search of Miss Mumford.” He started across the floor with a devastatingly easy stride. Slow, intentional; predatory. “I am here for George Townsend’s daughter.”</p><p>She should scream. Should suffer the dizzy head and stabbing agony that must come of a run to the window, and summon the aid of those taking the air on the lawn. She should call for assistance, and bring some sturdy Mumford footmen rushing to her door. She should do something—<em>anything </em>that would halt his steady, strolling advance across her chamber floor.</p><p>“Why?” she whispered, and quite incredibly he did stay his progress, at least for a moment. He looked almost intrigued by the question.</p><p>“<em>Why</em>? Miss Townsend, can you really mean it?” He searched her face, fascinated by the possibility. “By gad she does,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Then he is more a fool than I took him for. Not to warn you what risks he runs . . . Miss Townsend,” the stroll resumed, “my dear Miss Townsend, I am not here for the house party. I am not even a guest, though I do confess I entered under the guise of one and have secreted myself with no mean difficulty from the scrutiny of your hostess. This retreat has merely been a necessary cover and a welcome diversion to draw my quarry from pastoral rustication in his self-selected retirement. I am not interested in whist and watery lemonade. I am not even interested in Miss Mumford and her settlement of six thousand—she is, if you had not noticed, a most appalling giggler. All sound and no substance.”</p><p>That Cecily had entertained this same uncharitable estimation of Miss Mumford did nothing to ally her sympathies with the intruder. She shifted uneasily in her seat, her ankle flickering its irritation at even this minor disturbance and watched the man close the distance between them.</p><p>“Miss Mumford’s father,” he explained—he was now more than halfway across the floor—“is a witless buffoon whose meagre fortune owes entirely to his family’s name and continued exploitation of his tenants. He is of no interest to me, and therefore neither is she.”</p><p>He was but two arms’ lengths away.</p><p>“But your father, Miss Townsend,” he said, and she could see a terrible glitter in his eyes, something hard and cold that burned like distant star fire, “is another beast entirely.”</p><p>Cecily did not understand this shift in focus. Struggling to comprehend cost her what few precious seconds remained. All at once he was <em>there</em>, before her, towering over her seat and bracing his hands on either side of the low arms of her chair, making her entirely a prisoner in the seat.</p><p>“Your father is—or until recently was—an abominably efficient spy catcher in service of the war office.”</p><p>He searched her face keenly for signs of understanding, and was met with only Cecily’s naked disbelief. He sighed.</p><p>“Confound it, you did not know. That will make the shock the ruder, I do regret to say.”</p><p>“But—” Cecily struggled to marshal her wits in service of this revelation. The strange mesmerism that he had seemed to work as he approached her was dropping away. “Then you are . . .”</p><p>“Mmm, yes,” he said absently, his gaze already roving over the planes of her face, as if appreciating a piece of statuary. “Sold a few secrets. Lost my lands and had to give up any poor devil whose name I could remember to save my own neck. They sentenced me to penal servitude, but I gave them all the slip at the docks a fortnight ago and have since been making plans to suit myself. I don’t fancy a lifetime of hard labour, you see.”</p><p>This casual confession of cowardice, betrayal of his compatriots and subsequent gaol-break sparked Cecily’s ire, and she imprudently allowed her opinion to show on her face. The sight of it seemed to amuse him. He caught her chin deftly, though not altogether ungently, in one hand and lifted it to force her face upward.</p><p>“Lovely,” he said. “As sweet and light as summer confectionery, I do avow, and yet she also has a look of <em>him</em> about her, when she is cross with me. It could not be better. Oh, my dear Miss Townsend,” with a truly unsettling smile, “I should predict we are about to thoroughly enjoy ourselves, but alas: t’would only be half true.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>In his extensive travels, Elias Griffin had more than once had the opportunity to savour grapes plucked straight off the vine. That he should remember so forcefully that burst of tart sugar on his tongue when he entered the room occupied by Townsend’s daughter . . . well. Was it any wonder? There were inescapable similarities between one delicacy and the other.</p><p>On first inspection the girl had a soft, colourless sweetness to her features that spoke of innocence cultivated at expense of intellect, as fashion dictated. However as he drew nearer and she sat, petrified and heat-befuddled beyond her keenest instincts of self-preservation, he noted the charms too subtle to appreciate at first glance. There was a dimple just one side of the sweet, shell-pink mouth. The delicate spirals of fair summer curls did not droop limp and spent to her temples and neck, as they would if they were the creation of rag and styling rod, but rather sprang up in merry profusion so that they resembled a halo inviting disarrangement by some passing devil. The narrow calculation in her gaze spoke in turn to the devil’s own temper, and possibly, absent the hindrances of summer heat and physical discomfort, an intellect to complement it. A wary tension all through her limbs spoke to some manner of readiness for physical flight, but Griffin fully intended that she should tax herself in a different manner, and he moved to secure her in the chair before his rolling stride and carefully modulated tones should lose all their power and she could marshal wits sufficient to spring away from him to summon help.</p><p>Pinned into her chair she came at last to life, but too late to gain aid. When he indicated his intention for her she drew breath to shriek, and quick as thought he had his stiletto out and pressed to her neck, the point riding the delicate thrum of her pulse just below the jawline.</p><p>“Oh no, Miss Townsend,” he said softly, “I do not advise it. Else I shall leave you here rather the worse for wear than I had first intended.”</p><p>He waited a moment for her position to make itself clear to her, then dropped with unnecessary gallantry to kneel at her feet. One hand he rested on her ankle, then leaped up, startled, in answer to her shriek. He crushed his hand against her mouth, fingers clamping the dainty jawline firmly shut, and the stiletto he brandished with grim intent.</p><p>Tears filled her eyes, her own gaze trapped by the silver flash of the blade, and only in her belated stillness did his wits process what his touch had told him on first contact with the fine fabric of her stocking.</p><p>“You will be silent?” he demanded. She struggled to incline her head. He released her jaw, which she flexed piteously as he dropped again to see for himself.</p><p>The ankle he had touched was quite double the size of its companion, and elevated on a low foot stool. He clucked his tongue in admiration at fate’s inclination to oblige him in so trivial, yet efficacious, a manner. She could not even hope to flee him if she tried.</p><p>“My apologies, Miss Townsend,” he said, setting his hand firmly on the healthy leg, “I caused you needless pain. I see you have met with misadventure—you are no stranger to it, then, at any rate?” And so saying, with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye, he slid his hand up, along her leg, beneath her summer petticoat and relished the mortified stiffening of that limb at his touch. He suffered, pleasurably, his own stiffening in response to it.</p><p>“A lovely leg,” he murmured. “I am sure its fellow is ordinarily equally so.” He watched with unconcealed amusement as tears welled up in those round, thickly-lashed eyes, obscuring through shimmering saltwater the clear green-glass light of her gaze. “Why Miss Townsend, it will do you no good to shrink from my enjoyment of your form. I have every intention of enjoying you in your entirety ‘ere I take my leave.”</p><p>“But <em>why</em>?” she whispered again. “Why, when you could be leaving, hiding, why come here and—and do this to me?”</p><p>He paused in his gentle exploration of her inner thigh, and the delicate lace trim of the hem of her chemisette.</p><p>“Did I not explain myself before? Your father—” His hand clenched quite involuntarily, and wrung a plaintive cry from the helpless owner of the thigh so clutched, though nothing like the first shriek he had elicited when he abused the wounded limb. He magnanimously credited this disobedience to his own clumsiness, and not only forbore to punish her for it but also loosed his fingers, with an effort.</p><p>“Your father secured the evidence against me, and retired from his ignoble profession covered in glory. I was branded a traitor for my crimes and lost everything.” Griffin leaned in, searching her face for signs of understanding. “Now I will ensure that he knows how I feel.”</p><p>Cecily went  pale and still under his grip, and he understood her terror.</p><p>“I will not cut your throat, Miss Townsend. Not if you do not drive me to it. But you will feel me inside you and know me for your ruiner, and your father will know what his own actions have cost you.”</p><p>And she would know it, too. Know her father for the common spy he was, and the cause of her violation. The anticipation of that destruction was so sweet, Griffin did not even need to witness it for himself to treasure the thought. For now, though, he was content to let his fingers probe the soft heat between her thighs, the advancing pressure forcing her to spread her knees in obedience to his demand, so at last his thumb brushed against soft, sparse curls and teased the scorching line of heat that split them down their centre.</p><p>“A warm day, is it not, Miss Townsend?” he murmured, tracing the demure, damp cleft with the pad of his thumb. She whimpered as he gently parted her, finding his way in by touch alone to stroke the silken inner folds. Her whimper thinned to a keening little cry, and he smiled.</p><p>“I think we know each other well enough by now that I will ask your permission to address you as Cecily.”</p><p>He looked up into her face, relishing the naked horror there. Whether it was purely in answer to his physical violation, or if the boldness of his request had also had an impact on her, he honestly couldn’t say. When she only stared, he at last pressed his thumb to the deeper recess between her folds and said,</p><p>“May I?”</p><p>“No!” she gasped. “No you may no-<em>awwt</em>!” the final word terminated in a shriek as he pressed the width of his thumb into the very entrance of her. She clutched at the arms of her chair in panic, her eyes wide, her entire body rigid. His cock responded in kind.</p><p>“Is that no to the name,” he wondered, “or the rest of it? Because I will be advancing my intimacies against your person regardless of your reply, but if you would prefer that I address you correctly for the duration, I shall of course conduct myself according to your wishes.”</p><p>Cecily—he would certainly be <em>thinking</em> of her as Cecily whatever her demand of him—could only stare in bright-eyed horror. He imagined how he must look to her, a perfectly well-dressed gentleman with all his manners terminating at the rumpled hem of her skirts where his arm disappeared beneath layers of damp summer lawn and his thumb lodged remorselessly in the mouth of her untried little cunt. His lips curled upward in what he <em>knew</em> was a roguishly charming smile, and he pressed his thumb in a little more. Her horror melted into tears, and she pressed her hands to her face in abject misery.</p><p>“Miss Townsend it is, then,” he decided, and plied his fingertip to the dormant nub at the top of her sex, determined that she should soon desire to scream his name even if he was never granted permission to address her by hers.</p><p>~*~</p><p>George Townsend had no use for house parties. It was why he never attended them. The clothes, the manners, the people whose names he was expected to know in connection to their rank and financial position whilst simultaneously forgetting the rather more interesting indiscretions he also knew attended those names . . . Intolerable. Every minute.</p><p>But beyond his discomfort with the whole mess, there was Cecily to consider. For years he had not thought much about her needs as regarded the necessary social connections, since he knew that money enough could spare a girl the more arduous suspense of a season and buy her all the best bits besides. In his own hazy envisioning of the event, there would be clothes to buy, there would need to be a chaperone, and probably he would be standing any number of perfect fools to drinks and dinners before the thing was through, but his daughter would enjoy every minute and not need to debase herself considering any offers save those which best suited her fancy.</p><p>He had thought the thing perfectly well ordered until his late wife’s family started in on him last autumn. It had been subtle at first, a letter here, a remark there, but it had eventually escalated to the point that it culminated in a personal call paid in a professional space—and good Christing Jesus, the sight of his mother in law making an appearance at Whitehall had been enough to make him believe in evil portents—so that ultimately he was made to understand that there was rather more required of Cecily than he had first imagined. </p><p>She would need introductions and there would be letters sent and some kind of voucher—<em>what in God’s almighty name was an Almack’s</em>, he had asked, and was told that his needing to ask as much simply proved his unfitness to govern Cecily’s Season—and in short the entire thing was whisked from his hand as deftly as the money bled from his accounts.</p><p>That he had been able to put the minutiae into the hands of his relatives by marriage had at first seemed an imposition, but ultimately proved a boon when Himself had asked George to investigate Elias Griffin. It had been a nasty business, in the end. Secrets sold that had meant life and death to many, and Griffin profiting only by his bank balance. That was, after all, Griffin’s true cause—not liberty for Ireland, not the triumph of the French army, nor anything else he had actually sought to bring about by peddling what he had overheard in gaming hells and high-toned card halls. Griffin’s only sincerely-held belief was in the advancement of Griffin’s own wealth, and he had spread himself too thin in pursuit of that end. So George, in company with a few of the fellows he’d allied himself with in his younger days on the Continent, had set to bringing the bastard to heel.</p><p>One of the group—Driscoll. Good man, bad spy. Too trusting—had met his own end before they’d got Griffin by the balls at last, and it had shaken George more than he’d cared to admit, even to himself. So he decided that would be it, and hung up his . . . well. What did a spy have to hang up, really, except the lingering sense of shame that he was pursuing an ungentlemanly profession, and only the thrill of it, and the knowledge that he was doing a bit of good here and there, to keep him going?</p><p>After that, he went home in time to agree with his mother in law that a country house party would be just the thing to bring Cecily’s first Season to a pleasant conclusion. His mother in law might have been shocked by his ready acquiescence, but some of the fellows were also going to be there, squiring their own daughters, standing their sons, and he had enjoyed the prospect of a little time spent with them that wasn’t shared over maps and plots and daggers drawn. Indeed, the whole mess would have been more than tolerable if only his poor girl hadn’t lost her footing the moment he handed her down from the carriage the night before.</p><p>Cecily had been in real pain. He’d seen it in her face and it had nearly undone him as even losing Driscoll had not. He’d at once suggested they go home, but the chaperone—grim older woman, Lady whosit or whatnot—had seemed to think this was parental overreaction and worked at Cecily to agree to stay. Cecily was too obliging for her own good, and had seemed to believe the woman’s line about this being such a nice outing for all of them, especially Cecily’s dear papa who would be able to see his friends again, so she had put a brave face on it and said she’d stay. Even insisted she <em>wanted</em> to.</p><p>She had been disturbingly convincing, actually. Seemed to have the makings of a champion liar, his girl. In any other situation he might have been proud.</p><p>So George was still there, settled in a shaded room on the ground floor with a few of his closest companions gathered round the table, and it would all have been nearly pleasant if not for the knowledge that his daughter was clearly only there to suit him and he could not manage to persuade her to admit it.</p><p>He was still brooding over this problem when St. Regis strolled in, hands in pockets, and asked what the stakes were. Informed, he professed interest in joining them, then settled down at the table with a remark that made George’s blood run to ice in his veins.</p><p>“D’you know, I could have sworn I saw the devil’s own son sprint out of the breakfast room this morning? Dead spit of Elias Griffin, the fellow was. Suppose this is what comes of chasing spies all over creation, though. You start to see ‘em in places they couldn’t possibly be.”</p><p>He paused, considering.</p><p>“I mean . . . he couldn’t possibly <em>be</em> here. Could he?”</p><p>The mood around the table shifted. Breath stilled; stopped. George flexed his hand around the cards before he could think better of it, and stood.</p><p>“Damnation,” he growled.</p><p>The others were on their feet as well, gaze turning to the windows, each of them no doubt struggling to recall what inane pastime his own offspring had been meaning to enjoy at this hour. But it was not they, George was convinced, who had to worry. It had been he who had been tasked to head up the chase, it was his face Griffin had seen when the doors of the gaol closed on him, and it had been his own painstakingly gathered evidence which had set the man scrambling to roll over on every Tom, Dick and Harry he had ever taken payment from in a mad bid to save his own neck.</p><p>It was not <em>their</em> children Griffin would be after.</p><p>Not first.</p><p>George cast down the crumpled remnant of his cards and started for the stairs at a run.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Cecily’s head spun so that she had to press it into her palms as the man’s hand did unimaginable things to the very core of her. The heat he kept speaking of, casually attributing it to the summer months, seemed to be coming not from the room around her but entirely within. He had both hands under her skirt now, and still the terrible, pleasant smile on his face persisted, as though she had invited him in to do a favour and he was only too happy to oblige. He was <em>s</em><em>miling</em> at her. As though her ankle did not throb as he forced his torso between her knees, and she were not stretched painfully around the invasion of his fingers.</p><p>One hand he used to stroke and pet, and the other he wielded as a kind of weapon which he pressed <em>into</em> her, so painfully tight that she could feel every bump and bulge of his knuckle even when he used only his thumb to violate her. There was a dreadful rhythm to the penetration. Slow, thrusting, almost <em>gentle</em> in a way that made her warm and quivery deep inside. And he seemed to know it! He smiled at her, cruelly handsome, and said,</p><p>“There, now, I think she’s starting to enjoy herself a little. Isn’t it so?”</p><p>“No,” she tried to say, but it came out a squeak; a whisper. She was <em>not</em> enjoying herself, but he pretended she had said yes. He <em>must</em> be pretending. He could not possibly imagine she had truly done so; <em>surely</em> he must see her crying. Yet he smiled and inclined his head as though she had told him she were having a lovely time.</p><p>“I’m so glad to know it. Now, I regret that this next may be a trifle uncomfortable, at least to begin with, but you are such an accommodating young lady I do not doubt you will do your best to accommodate me in this as well.”</p><p>For one blissful moment, the dreadful stretch relaxed. He withdrew his thumb and she gasped wetly in relief. Then, though, he advanced <em>two</em> fingers, pressing her open even wider than before. Her shriek came again and her knees bucked, so that pain flared in her ankle as well as between her legs. At the strain on her knee, she screamed in earnest.</p><p>All at once both hands were out from under her dress and he had her by the throat. Still smiling. Still pleasant, almost apologetic, as he squeezed her neck with hands that were slick, and wet, and richly scented with her juices as he said,</p><p>“None of that please, Miss Townsend. I think I have made my wishes as regards your silence <em>quite</em> clear.”</p><p>She gasped at air that did not come, <em>would</em> not come, ‘til she nodded dutifully and he released her as easily as if he had pulled her aside from the main ballroom for a private chat rather than crept into her bedchamber to force his fingers inside her.</p><p>“I expect an apology,” he added, and his smile broadened at her instant expression of indignation. “Ah! There she is. Such a lovely, wicked temper under all that lawn and lace. You are altogether the maid, Miss Townsend, and that is to your father’s great credit I am sure, but you are not missish in the least.” He paused, then prodded, gently, “But where is my apology?”</p><p>His hand hovered thoughtfully over the stiletto he had sheathed in his waistcoat, and her gaze was transfixed by the glistening wetness on his fingers.</p><p>That damp gleam on his knuckle had come from <em>her</em>. From a place inside her. And now it was on his hand, which he would use to press that awful knife to her neck, or maybe somewhere even worse, if she did not . . .</p><p>“I apologise,” she said dully. He nodded.</p><p>“For?”</p><p>She tried to remember.</p><p>“For—for screaming when you . . . when you hurt me.”</p><p>“Did I hurt you, Miss Townsend? Lamentable! A little pain on your part is, I regret, inevitable, and I fear it would do no good to pretend you will not suffer even more of the same before our transaction is complete. Nevertheless,” he swept a gallant bow, “I do to some degree regret the necessity.”</p><p>He straightened in time to catch a glimpse of her honest reaction, and laughed in delight. “Oh! Only glower at me again, my dear.” He trailed a casual hand along the side of her neck, and she shuddered at his touch. “I am deeply affected by the sight of your frown.”</p><p>Cecily instead closed her eyes, so she did not see what he was doing with her skirts until they stirred again and something warm and wet pressed against the outside of her. Only then did her eyes fly open, and she realised he had put his own head beneath her skirt this time, and the thing she felt stroking her there . . . oh mercy. It was his <em>tongue</em>.</p><p>Cecily clutched her head again, and sobbed.</p><p>Quietly.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Cecily Townsend did not taste of grapes, but by God he had never sampled such a bouquet as this. Griffin could scarcely contain his hunger for her. Was every virgin cunt so responsive to a man’s touch? He could not imagine it. Townsend’s lovely daughter—or at least, his daughter’s cunt—seemed particularly ready to suffer his attention, no matter how she might profess her dismay.</p><p>Even the close suffocation of her layers of summer petticoat and gown—Christ, how did these girls stand it?—was not enough to deter him from laving the sweet, plump lips of her barely-sampled little fuckpurse. The idea that he would soon be buried in her up to the hilt had his cock straining at the confines of his breeches with almost painful urgency.</p><p>Did she even know what this part of her was for? They had a country place, he reasoned, and Townsend had kept her there. It was the entire reason he had needed to seek them out at the house party in the first place; the girl was too damned inaccessible on her own land. Surely she had <em>some</em> understanding, such as was inevitable when reared in rustication amongst livestock. Townsend’s horseflesh alone must have provided an illustration. Whatever protection of her virtue Townsend might have envisioned, sheltering her there, he surely must have put her in a position to receive some manner of education in the needs of the flesh.</p><p>Even so, the possibility of being the one to introduce her to the shock of what she could be used for, to say nothing of how roughly, rudely or long . . . a shudder racked his body, which must have translated through his mouth’s contact with her cunt because the little treasure juiced up beautifully just then, provoking him to greedily plunge his first two fingers inside, ignoring her squirms and whimpers as he stretched her out, wet and sweet, over his knuckles. His free hand he kept employed in the business of stroking her clit, which swelled to charming prominence against every objection of its mistress until at last the poor girl broke, shuddering, and spent herself with a defeated little wail against his tongue. He lapped shamelessly at her offering, and did not slack the rhythm of his hand.</p><p>Was it the heat that was getting to him? Or simply the knowledge that his cock was about to follow? Either way, Griffin’s head swam deliciously, and he forced a third into her just for the pleasure of hearing her squeal.</p><p>The thin, shrieking note of pain, wrung from the abuse of her hypersensitive cunt, was too much to withstand. He pulled his fingers from her, glistening her readiness even as she wept her belief otherwise, and fumbled greedily at the buttons that restrained his cock.</p><p>If a man had to go into exile, there could be no better send off than this.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Cecily pushed at her captor as he dragged her up from her chair. She might as well have tried to beat back a windstorm: he was solid and unmovable, and she dangled helplessly in his grip. When he slacked his hold on her so that she dangled less, and was forced to bear her own weight, her ankle throbbed and she screamed. He fumbled her skirts at the back, hauling them up, baring her backside and giving it a perfunctory slap in reply.</p><p>“Yes, I know, your leg is injured,” he sighed, “and it grieves me, Miss Townsend, it does, to punish you for your own expression of pain, but,” as he settled into the chair she had occupied, gripping her hips cruelly and backing her toward him, “this would be the most damnably awkward time for anybody to interrupt us, you must see that. You are not to scream. I quite forbid it.”</p><p>Then a groan burst from him, guttural, almost animalian, and she felt a throbbing pressure at the place he had probed with his fingers and his tongue, and so recently strummed to some manner of breaking point she had never imagined was possible. “What—” she began, then fell silent in stupefied wonder.</p><p>“My cock, Miss Townsend,” he said, and even through the strain of lust there was a note of something like pride. “You are about to sit back upon my cock. Your first, I think, my dear? An I am not very much mistaken.”</p><p>It was, though she did not think it was any affair of his.</p><p>It was strangely warm and soft, for something so broad, but she felt the steely intention behind it all the same. The reality of what it must be, what he must be preparing to do, refused to resolve itself in her understanding. She would not, <em>could</em> not think what it must mean—</p><p>Then he pulled her down onto it, pressed <em>inside</em> her, split her apart, and the stiletto was forgotten, his threats forgotten, all eclipsed by the pain that pierced her belly and the scream that ripped from her in reply.</p><p>~*~</p><p>He had been too engrossed in the act of taking her to remember how she would surely react, and he cursed himself as the chit shrieked her displeasure at the rude introduction of his cock. He fumbled for her mouth in response, managed to get his hand around it, and used his other arm to pin both of hers to her sides.</p><p>He rutted up into her, grunting his satisfaction at how well she took him. Slick and hot and clutching was her greedy little cunt, and he quite lost himself to the pleasure of filling it. She burbled uselessly between his fingers, and he could have blocked her out with very little effort, except all at once there came a sound like thunder on the door, blows raining down, and the rhythm of thrusts he had been on the verge of establishing stuttered to a frozen, frightened halt.</p><p>His hand on her mouth bore into her flesh as cruelly as his cock in her cunt, but she fought both, sobbing wordlessly, breaths coming shallow and damp until he pinched her nostrils and she struggled instead simply to breathe, rather than break free.</p><p>The struggles slowed, and stilled, until between the thunder they could both make out the sound of her name.</p><p>“Cecily! Cecily, open the door—damnation, will somebody not bring me an axe!”</p><p>Townsend.</p><p>Griffin’s cockstand, still buried in the girl’s cunt, wavered in its resolve even as Cecily redoubled hers. With an almighty thrust of her injured leg, she connected with the little table beside her chair and sent it over to the floor with a crash. The sounds beyond the door ceased entirely, and then, ominously, came Townsend’s query:</p><p>“Griffin?”</p><p>Well. That put paid to that.</p><p>Griffin sighed, gave one more half-hearted thrust, and released Cecily’s mouth. She drooped on his lap, choking for breath, as he fumbled in his waistcoat for the knife.</p><p>“Stay where you are, if you please,” he called, twirling the blade lazily through the air. “I have made rather a mess of her already, but there is yet flesh remaining to rend if you breach the door.”</p><p>Griffin had not previously known silence could hold such menace, but Townsend was, if nothing else, a man of many talents. The long silence which stretched seemed to fill with unspoken threats of Griffin’s own dismemberment and all other indescribable manner of violations, should Townsend achieve his aim of breaking down the door.</p><p>Griffin swallowed.</p><p>“She <em>is</em> still alive,” he offered to the air. “If that is of interest to you.”</p><p>A shorter silence. Then, grudgingly, coldly,</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>Griffin’s breath rushed out of him in a torrent of internal tension newly slacked. Thank God. Men could sometimes be odd about their girl-children, and as confident as he’d been that Townsend’s devotion was sincere, he could not deny his relief at having it confirmed.</p><p>“Then we can negotiate,” he parried, tones ringing with an assurance he did not dare admit even to himself was perhaps less than absolute. Townsend’s reply suggested he knew exactly where Griffin’s uncertainty lay.</p><p>“Perhaps.”</p><p>Griffin sought out Cecily’s neck with the blade.</p><p>“She has her skirts rucked up to her waist and is held before me with my knife at her throat, Townsend,” he called. “Who knows but that I have a pistol and sabre and accomplice besides? Yet I am confident that in her person I have all the weapon I need. Any attempt to breach the door—”</p><p>“Let <em>her</em> speak, damn you!” Townsend thundered in reply, and locked door or not, Griffin shrank back. The knife drooped as he did, and Cecily, her cunt still straining around the—<em>damn</em> Townsend—softening girth of Griffin’s cock, clutched at his legs for balance, and took a deep, shuddering breath.</p><p>“Papa?” she called, and Townsend’s reply to her came after a much different kind of silence, in a very different tone of voice.</p><p>“I’m here, Cecily.”</p><p>She put her face up, nodded just a little, and Griffin did not care for the way her profile seemed to firm at hearing those words. He hastened to intervene.</p><p>“Describe your position to your father, my dear,” he instructed, and firmed the pressure of the blade against her neck. “Quickly. It is urgent that he grasps how the matter stands.”</p><p>“We are sitting . . . quite close, Papa,” she said lightly, with only a faint tremor underlying the announcement. “He has a knife.” She paused with exquisite deliberation, then finished bluntly, “and I have had time and proximity sufficient to ascertain that he certainly has nothing else.”</p><p>Griffin’s hand locked in a punishing grip on her knee and he wrenched the bad leg to the side, so that she shrieked and fell right off his cock to collapse on the floor. Before he could dive to recapture her, a ferocious crack split the panels of the door and the thing crashed half-inward, broken by the blade of the axe that was being withdrawn and, no doubt, held aloft in preparation for the second blow.</p><p>If the door could withstand even three such assaults, Griffin would have been shocked. He lurched to his feet, frozen, torn between the recumbent figure of Cecily Townsend and the freedom that beckoned out her first storey window. A drop to the gardens below might put his arm or knee out of joint, but George Townsend, wielding an axe, breaking into the room to see his only child on the floor and Griffin standing over her, his cock still wet with her juices . . .</p><p>A knee joint might well be all that was left of him, after that.</p><p>Griffin bent, seized Cecily by the arm and hauled her to her feet as the second blow fell on the panels. He started backward, dragging her with him as the door shuddered in its frame. He pushed the knife up under her jaw, hauling her out onto the modest Juliet balcony just as the door was knocked in to the ground, and Townsend advanced, axe still in hand, murder on his face.</p><p>“For the love of God, man, think it through,” Griffin urged. He cowered—there could be no other word for it—behind the meagre frame of the man’s daughter. Cecily was nearly a deadweight in his arms by this point, her knee unequal to the task of holding her up. Slight as she was, she dragged down on him dreadfully. He tried to manoeuvre so he had clearance to make a credible threat of tossing her over, but the best he could do was to prop her up against his own chest and lean. It was no good. So he pressed the knife to her jaw instead, and had the faint satisfaction of seeing Townsend falter in his stride at the sight.</p><p>“What price your satisfaction of capturing me,” Griffin demanded, “if you must also bury her tomorrow?”</p><p>Cecily squirmed in his arms, and the look on her father’s face in that moment, nothing so much as like Griffin held the man’s very life and soul in his hands, <em>almost</em> made the whole unconscionable cock up worth it.</p><p>Almost.</p><p>With Townsend held in abeyance, Griffin got a leg over the railing, calculating. There were thick hedges below him, artfully sculpted, so densely planted they obscured his view of the grounds below. He could cast himself on their mercy. He could also drag the girl over with him, just for the sheer satisfaction of the thing, but there would be no better way to ensure her father’s immediate pursuit. He could not take her. As for killing her . . . Griffin did not like to miscalculate the risk of that. A father too broken-hearted over the bleeding body of his daughter to effect pursuit was surely a desirable outcome, but a father enraged beyond all reason, driven to pursue his quarry to the ends of the earth with nothing left to lose, was entirely the opposite.</p><p>So instead he grabbed Cecily by the knot of damp curls at the back of her head, wrenched her around to face him, and kissed her. Fully. Deeply. Ignoring the way she beat furiously at his chest, trying to force him off, ignoring the wordless roar of fury from her father, until Townsend started forward—Christ almighty, he was actually raising the axe—and shoved the girl into the chest of her advancing parent.</p><p>Then Griffin dropped over the side of the balcony, and hoped to whatever devil might take a fancy to him that the bushes would be sufficient to break his fall.</p><p>~*~</p><p>George caught his daughter as she cannoned into him, and once having caught her, clutched her to him and in that moment fully intended that he should never let her go. For a timeless, wordless moment they were suspended together in that place. He was aware of people in the corridor beyond the broken door, the same people who had followed after his breathless flight, and fetched the axe.</p><p>(He still held the axe, he realised, with a start, and let it drop to the ground at his side with a <em>thud</em>)</p><p>He was even more distantly aware of cries of surprise in the garden below, shouts, thumps, and indication of a scuffle. But it didn’t matter. None of it did. All that mattered was Cecily, held firmly against his chest, finally as safe as she should have always been, were it not for . . .</p><p>His heart clutched at the understanding that he was entirely to blame for this, and he was about to voice his own apology when his daughter lifted her face from its place of grateful rest against his buttons, and smiled up at him.</p><p>“I knew you’d come,” she said. “I tried to wait for you, but he . . .” She trailed off, and shuddered. Something latently murderous unfurled in George’s belly.</p><p>“St. Regis went out to the lawn, in case he should try that way out,” he muttered. “If he was successful in apprehending the bastard, I swear to you I’ll end him with my own—unless,” as the thought struck him, “you would prefer to . . ?”</p><p>Cecily smiled very sweetly at the father who had just offered her first right of kill against her own assailant.</p><p>“Thank you, Papa. I might.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” George nodded, “no need to decide just now.”</p><p>He held her closer and was about to rest his chin atop her head and breathe in the victory that was her life, preserved, when through the window there came fresh clamour. A sudden shriek went up from the otherwise relative hush of the lawn, followed by a near-hysterical trill of nervous giggles.</p><p>“What in God’s name—” George began, astonished, but Cecily’s gentle laughter stayed his impulse to investigate.</p><p>“It’s nothing, Papa,” she said, and patted his hand with an expression that could only be described as impish. “Only I <em>rather</em> fancy that Miss Mumford has just seen her first cock.”</p><p>~*~</p>
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